


Wish

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Holding [15]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Cupcakes, Developing Relationship, M/M, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: “Bergy, baby, you know I love you but I’m scared of you in my kitchen,” he announces. “Because you can’t cook and everyone knows it.”After some insisting, Patrice is allowed to stir the sauce on the grounds that he’s still trying to do something nice for Brad’s birthday even though he shouldn’t legally be allowed near stoves. Brad watches him and thinks back to other birthdays, blowing out candles and wishing for stupid things. Those wishes never went anywhere, because he did no work to earn what he was asking for.





	Wish

**Author's Note:**

> It's Brad's birthday in this fic, because it was my birthday when I wrote it so why not. Also for some reason I have a headcanon for this relationship that Brad's the one who cooks because Patrice doesn't know how and always ruins food.

“Did you ever notice how stupid words are?” Brad shouts as the door to his apartment bangs open. He can hear Patrice’s shoes getting kicked off and then a quiet grunt that tries hard not to be momentarily panicked but still is. He ignores it. “Actually not the words as much, it’s what they’re used for. Like ‘penetrative sex.’ Why do you call it ‘penetration?’ That’s so violent! It should be like, ‘insertion’ or something. You’re inserting yourself. That’s much nicer.”

“Yeah,” Patrice answers distantly, sounding distracted. There’s a soft noise as something gets set on the kitchen counter. “I want you to know that you’re banned from this room for the next forty minutes, Bradley.”

“What if there’s a fire and I need to escape? Will you make me burn to death because you want me to stay out of the kitchen?” he shouts indignantly from the chair where he’s not-really-watching the tv.

“If there’s a fire, it’ll probably be in here, and there’s stairs right outside your bedroom window for that exact reason,” Patrice calls. “You can’t come into the kitchen until I say and that’s all there is to it.”

Brad groans, but doesn’t keep arguing because he knows it’s pointless. Another half dozen texts come in then from various relatives wishing him happy birthday. _It’d be happier if I could go into my own kitchen,_ he silently grumbles. He’d say it except Patrice won’t know what he’s talking about, having not seen the phone. Instead he just replies _thank you_ to all of them and goes back to ignoring the tv.

“Bergy, baby, you know I love you but I’m scared of you in my kitchen,” he announces. “Because you can’t cook and everyone knows it.”

“You’ll be fine. And how do you know I’m cooking?”

“Uh, because you’re in a fucking kitchen?” Brad points out.

“Maybe I’m building homemade explosives.”

“Okay, as awesome as that would be, there’s no way in hell that’s what you’re doing,” he laughs. “You’re too perfect and nice to try blowing things up.”

Patrice finally sticks his head into the living room: “You’re distracting me when I’m trying to do something.”

“Yeah, I’m good at that,” Brad grins. “And the only thing I’m stopping you from doing is burning food to my pans so bad that the pans have to get thrown out. _Again._ ”

“That only happened once, and it wasn’t even your pan!” Patrice argues. He shakes his head. “Okay, you know what? Fine. I give up trying to surprise you, come over and help since you’re not going to shut up.”

Brad pumps his fist in the air in triumph and jumps out of his chair to go into the kitchen. There, he finds - just like he feared - food in the making. Or more accurately, food that’s clearly about to be ruined.

“You know you’re the only guy I know who can’t even make spaghetti,” he teases. “What even is this?”

“A box of noodles.”

“Yeah, a box of noodles you’re about to fucking _destroy,_ Bergy. You’re supposed to boil the water first.” From the setup, it’s painfully clear that Patrice was going to put the spaghetti into the pot with the water and then try to boil it. “Okay, watch the master.”

Brad puts the water on to boil, then grabs another, smaller pan. The jar of sauce is opened and poured in.

“Can’t it just get microwaved?” Patrice questions.

Brad makes a face and mimes puking. “How are you even still _alive?_ You have to eat to live, but nothing you make is edible and this right here is exactly why. No, Bergy, you don’t microwave sauce. You put it in here-” He points to the pan. “-and then you add stuff.”

The cabinets are rummaged and Brad tosses in dried chives, oregano, Italian seasoning, a pinch of onion powder and then a spoonful of diced garlic from the fridge. It gets stirred together and put on the stove with the burner as low as possible.

“Isn’t that already in the sauce?”

“Sometimes. I like doing this anyway, it tastes better.” Brad idly stirs. “Pat, I’m really touched that you were going to try and make food, okay? Y’know, for gifts it’s the thought that counts.”

“Yeah.” Patrice nods. “I just wanted to do something nice, and I know you like Italian food…”

“Next year just get me a shirt with the ninja turtles on it, it’s way easier and you don’t have to fuck around with pots,” Brad grins.

“Still sticking with the ‘thirty-one-going-on-six’ vibe, huh?” his friend chuckles.

“Damn straight.” Brad gives it another stir and then pulls Patrice over for a hug. “So, is the team going to invade my pad later and pretend they’re surprising even though it happens every time?”

“Probably,” Patrice laughs, hugging back. “They haven’t said anything to me, but I’m sure they will.”

They go back to the food. After some insisting, Patrice is allowed to stir the sauce on the grounds that he’s still trying to do something nice for Brad’s birthday even though he shouldn’t legally be allowed near stoves. Brad watches him and thinks back to other birthdays, blowing out candles and wishing for stupid things. Those wishes never went anywhere, because he did no work to earn what he was asking for.

Brad wraps around Patrice from behind, leaning into his back and waiting to get yelled at for it. Because they tried this before, and it didn’t end well. Six years ago, actually… fuck, they were young back then. Brad had gone to see Patrice after his lung was re-inflated and started yelling at him for playing with an injury that could’ve gotten him killed. There was no reasonable discussion, no admission of fear, just an ugly screaming match that ended a four month old relationship.

A quiet sigh. “Brad, we can’t.”

“I know.” He doesn’t let go.

“Don’t you remember what Julien said?”

“Julien’s not here anymore.”

“Brad.”

“Mm.”

“We can’t.”

“You keep saying that,” Brad answers, “but not doing anything to stop me.”

“Brad…”

“Yeah?”

“We’re in the middle of making food.”

“And?”

“And - the sauce could burn…”

“Wow, you really don’t have any good arguments, do you?”

“You haven’t brought this up since it ended. Why now?”

“Because I’m… uh… smarter, now?” Brad starts giggling. He can’t say that with a straight face. “Okay. Maybe not. But I know what I did wrong, and I won’t do it again.”

“You were panicking,” Patrice reminds him quietly. “You still panic sometimes.”

“Yeah, but only for important shit,” he argues. “And I know better now. Instead of freaking the fuck out and getting in your face, I go sit in the hospital with you and just say how freaked out I am. You’ve seen me do it tons of times by now. I’m better than I used to be.”

“Yeah, you are,” Patrice concedes. “But the team-”

“Brusky asked me one time why on tv they never say anything about our relationship,” Brad grins. “He was fucking shocked to hear that we’re not in one.”

“But Z-”

“Has given me a ton of lectures about this. He said I need to stop making myself miserable because it brings everyone down.”

“Are you that miserable?” Patrice whispers.

“Yes,” Brad answers in the most blunt tone of voice he can manage. “I need love and attention.”

“You get so much attention,” Patrice scoffs. “It’s impossible _not_ to pay attention to you because you’re so loud and insane.”

“Not as much anymore. Did you _not notice_ how I didn’t get suspended or fined?”

Patrice is quiet. That’s when Brad notices the water is boiling; the spaghetti gets snapped and put in, the timer on the stove is set. He doesn’t go back to lightly clinging to his friend, though, and instead sits at the table and does his best not to sulk. It’s his birthday. He can spend tomorrow sulking instead if he has to.

“So since I didn’t actually get you anything, is there something you want for your birthday?” Patrice asks, obviously trying to change the subject.

Brad folds his hands on the table and bites the inside of his cheek. He shakes his head and then rests his face on his arms, because apparently he’s that fucking pathetic that he will, in fact, spend his birthday sulking. He thinks of wishing on candles again, because trying to make something happen worked about as well as asking little sticks of burning wax to magically do it for him.

Back then, Quiader had shoved Brad into Patrice’s arms in the middle of the locker room and loudly demanded that they “fucking kiss and get it over with already”, and Brad had been too startled to do anything but comply. Even more shocking had been when Patrice kissed back. He remembers how he couldn’t stop grinning after like a complete idiot, and neither could Patrice. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Then Patrice got hurt, and Brad had panicked, and his fear got the better of him. He wishes that he wasn’t such a fucking dumbass back then, because six years is a long time so if he’d just been a little smarter and a little more patient they would probably be married and have kids by now.

Something gets set down in front of him - when Brad looks, it’s a cupcake on a plate. Patrice presses a candle into the frosting and lights it with a match. “Make a wish, Brad,” Patrice insists, like he’s a child.

Brad nods and blows out the candle. He doesn’t wish for anything.

“I’ll eat it after lunch,” he decides. “What kind is it?”

“It’s yellow cake, not really anything special,” Patrice shrugs. “I know you like ice cream better, so there’s some in your freezer now.”

The timer goes off and their attention is redirected to the food. The strand Brad flings at the wall sticks, so the pasta is done and gets dished up with sauce. Brad piles his with cheese while Patrice’s goes unmolested. They each take pieces of garlic bread and sit.

“What’d you wish for?” Patrice asks before taking a bite.

Brad shrugs. _Nothing. I didn’t wish for anything, because my career is great and I have a nice place to live, so you’re the only thing missing but I don’t get to have you and wishing won’t change that-_ “If I tell you it won’t come true,” Brad answers, forcing himself to grin. “Don’t you know that? Literally everyone knows that, you can’t wish for something and then say what it is, because then you don’t get it.”

Except they’ve known each other way too long for him to get away with this act, the one he puts on for the media or even sometimes the rookies when he’s suffering and doesn’t want them to know. There’s probably something on his face or in his eyes, because Patrice is giving back the same expression: pretending to smile even though he’s so obviously, unbearably sad.

“Well, if you tell me, then maybe I can help you get it,” Patrice offers.

“I wished for more cupcakes,” Brad lies, then stuffs his face with bread because it gets his stupid mouth to stop making noise for a few seconds.

“The rest of the package is in your fridge.”

“Well, then I guess I got my wish.” Brad starts spinning his fork on his plate to ball up the pasta. “Even though I shouldn’t just eat a package of cupcakes.”

Patrice nods and plays with his food. After all the fuss he’d caused, he now looks like he’s stopped being hungry. “Did Z actually say that to you? To stop making yourself miserable?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“Brad… you came running into my hospital room while they were bandaging my ribs and started screaming at me about how stupid it was that I played hurt and how I could’ve died. I know you were having a panic attack but you wouldn’t answer the phone when I called you the next day. I tried to talk to you and you wouldn’t let me.”

“But I don’t do that anymore,” Brad answers. It’s not good enough and he knows it, but there isn’t really anything else he can think of at the moment. He slouches a little, looking at the cupcake in the middle of the table instead of at his friend. “Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because you’re sad, and I hate that,” Patrice answers, much more bluntly than Brad is used to.

“Give it a few minutes, I’ll get distracted by something and stop being sad,” Brad jokes.

Patrice shakes his head. “No you won’t,” he counters, very quietly.

“Yeah.” Brad forces himself to eat some more. “It’s okay. I’m used to it, and I’m pretty sure I never actually said I was sorry.”

“No, you did. You were drunk at the time, and we were heading into offseason with no cup, so I didn’t want to hear it.”

Oh, okay. Brad never remembered how they’d broken up until now, because he’d been hammered at the time. He sorta assumed he’d been the one behind it after freaking out again, because he’s just kind of (definitely) a fucking dumbass like that. But apparently Patrice is the one who broke up with Brad. Which makes sense. Patrice had every right to be upset with him. It also explains why Patrice won’t take him back now, no matter what he says, because it was Patrice’s choice.

“I think-”

Brad doesn’t get to finish, because then there’s a bunch of hands banging on the door to his apartment. He takes one last bite of spaghetti and gets up to let in half of their team mates, duct-taping his mood back into something passable so that he can be grinning like a jackass the way he always does as he’s opening up for them. Pasta, Danton, Krej, Mojo and Backy pile in all at once, then Z, while Jaro and Brusky are forcing Tuuks along (who as always looks like he’d rather be doing anything else besides spend time with the guys he’s supposedly friends with).

Someone turns up the volume on the tv and turns it to ESPN, which is going on about fucking golf of all things (a sport that’s not even a real sport and that Brad has absolutely zero respect for). Thankfully, Patrice hangs around, although Brad wonders if it’s just because it would look weird for him not to. He disappears for a second into the kitchen and returns with the package of cupcakes, and as those are being passed around Danton shoves him backwards into the chair Brad is already inhabiting.

“There! That looks better, right guys?” their line mate grins, which is met with laughing and chirps.

On the inside, Brad is cringing, because it’s too similar to the Locker Room Incident that started their short-lived relationship at the tail end of 2012. Patrice is a little pink, but doesn’t say anything about it and shuffles them into a more comfortable arrangement - it seems to not matter to him that this chair isn’t designed for two adult hockey players to sit in at once.

Brad puts on a brave face the entire time his friends are here, like being crammed into a chair with Patrice isn’t painful as hell. Randomly, he thinks about how he didn’t finish his lunch. Plus by now his cupcake probably got eaten by one of his team mates. After a couple hours people start trickling back out again, though, until it’s just Tuuks, Z and Patrice still in his apartment. Brad was finally able to go sit somewhere else a little while ago.

“Let’s take a quick walk, Selke,” Tuuks decides, grabbing Patrice by the arm and dragging. He glances at Z, then Brad: “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Um,” Brad starts to say, but the door’s already closing. He turns to his captain. “Did I miss something?”

“They’re having a conversation,” Z answers, very unhelpfully. “We’re having one, too.”

“Okay, cool. About what?”

“Your relationship with Patrice.”

“Don’t you mean non-relationship?” Brad scoffs. “We were talking about it before everyone came over, and he’s seriously not interested in me fucking up his life again. I’m too chaotic and shit.”

“Bradley,” Z interrupts in a voice that’s stern but still kind, “please take a breath and listen for once.” Great. Brad’s about to get parented by his captain. He thought he outgrew that finally, but apparently not. “I know you’ve been doing your best not to let your feelings affect the team. Most of the time, you succeed. It’s probably my mistake for letting this go on as long as it has.”

“Uh, what? This has literally nothing to do with anyone else on the team,” Brad argues. “I got issues. Everyone does. So what? I still show up on time for practice and play as hard as I can.”

“Yes, I know. But David and Charlie-” Brad knows without specifying that it’s Pasta and McAvoy being referred to, here. “-have asked me, without speaking to each other, why you’re unhappy. Most of the guys have been around long enough to have the story, but we have a good team, so nobody talks about each other behind their backs. Or if they have, I never hear it. Anyway, can you see why this is a problem for me? The way you act, the way you talk, especially in locker rooms, but two people have now asked me this question.”

“Well… what did you say?” Brad wonders, a little nervous.

“Nothing. I told them if they’re worried, they should talk with you about it. That’s not the point.” Z sighs, though it’s anything but unsympathetic. “Brad, it affects the team dynamic when you’re in pain.”

“Yeah, so? It’s been six years, and there’s no fixing it.”

“But you’re still not getting on with your life. I don’t like this any more than you, but if you can’t get it resolved by preseason, there will have to be a discussion. Six years is too long for me to have let you down like this, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Brad mumbles, shame-faced. “I’m the one fucking up the team, apparently. That’s not even a new thing for me, so. Whatever. I’ll try harder to fucking get over it. And Pat deserves better anyway, so. There’s that.”

“Nobody is blaming you,” Z insists. “And you need to give yourself some credit, because Patrice wouldn’t have picked you if he didn’t think you’re worth something. So enough about ‘doing better.’ That has nothing to do with it.”

“But I was trying to talk about this to him earlier and he wouldn’t go for it,” Brad protests, standing up to pace. “Besides, this is like, the only season when I haven’t just been a first-rate fuckup. That’s not a good track record. He’s perfect and he deserves someone who’s also perfect, like… I don’t know, an actual angel from heaven or some shit. And - you know what, that’s not even what we’re talking about, right? I’m bad for team chemistry…”

“Brad,” Z replies calmly, “please take some breaths, and think about what you’re saying. I never said you’re bad for team chemistry. Your friends are worried about you. I want to help you get things on track again.”

“Yeah, but-”

“No ‘yeah buts’. Here is what you’re going to do: first, you’re going to take a deep breath.” Z waits for Brad to obey him before he keeps talking. “Now, you’re going to sit down with Patrice and talk to him about this once Tuukka and I have left. There’s a discussion to be had with him, but you can do it by yourselves. He’s right now also having sense knocked into him.”

Brad snorts - he can imagine the kind of riot act Tuukka must be giving to his best friend. “I just want my life to stop being a shitty rom-com without a happy ending.”

“I know. You need to do your best to be rational and calm. You’ve been getting better at that, so I’m sure you can do it now.” Z pauses. “I understand it’s much easier for me to sit here saying this than it will be for you do do these things. But it’s been disturbing your life too long, and even though we’ve talked about this before, I never explained how you should proceed. I’m very sorry about that. You love Patrice, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you owe it to yourself to keep trying.”

“He’s gonna shut me down again,” Brad argues. “And I don’t fucking blame him, either, because I was acting like a fucking idiot back then and I still act like an idiot sometimes, so that’s not a great way to convince him.”

“So, you should draw attention to things that have improved,” Z offers. “You’re less reactive than you used to be, you’ve gotten better at talking if you need something.”

“I tried to tell him that earlier. It wasn’t good enough.” Brad finally sits down again with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “I’m not good enough.”

“Bradley, you are very much good enough. Even though you’re not together at the moment, Patrice is still very close with you. I can only guess, but the problem he has could be that this friendship was in trouble when you broke up. He’s afraid to lose you as his best friend. That’s why he said no.”

“But I’ll never not be his friend,” Brad protests.

“Then maybe that’s what you should tell him when Tuukka brings him back here,” Z suggests.

The end of the conversation is well-timed; about thirty seconds later, their other two team mates come back into Brad’s apartment. Tuukka looks boredly-irritated like always, while Patrice is downright miserable and clearly one step up from curling into a ball on the couch for a depressed nap.

“I did everything I could, but these two need to figure it out for themselves,” Tuukka grunts, clearly addressing Z.

“Yes, we’re done here for now… good luck, Bradley.” Their captain and their goalie leave without another word.

“So… you look like a kicked dog,” Brad starts.

Patrice nods. “He yelled at me until I cried. And then he yelled at me for crying.”

“Sounds about right.”

“I deserved it, though.”

“Maybe not,” Brad shrugs. “I mean. Z did the whole ‘team dad’ thing, and it’s a lot nicer.”

Patrice gestures for him to sit on the couch instead, then disappears briefly into the kitchen. When he comes back he sits next to Brad and holds out a small plate: “You never ate your cupcake.”

“Oh, right.” Brad takes it and has a small bite.

“So what did you wish for?”

“For fuck’s sake, just give up on that, Bergs.”

“Did you wish for me?”

Brad shakes his head, but just barely. “No. I didn’t wish for anything.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t get to have you, and there’s nothing else I need so there’s nothing for me to wish for.” He forces a grin. “I can’t believe you let Tuuks make you cry.”

“I wasn’t actually crying, just leaking a little. And I felt really guilty because he kept pointing out how much of an idiot I am. Then he said I have no right to cry because it’s my fault for not letting myself be happy.”

Brad takes another small bite of cupcake. “Z just kept reminding me to breathe and shit.”

“Well, you do need air to survive.”

“Yeah, I also hyperventilate when I’m freaking out.”

“Trust me, I noticed.” Then Patrice sighs. “Brad, I… I’m sorry for earlier. You were trying to talk and I just wasn’t listening.”

“It’s okay. I never listen to me, either.” Brad takes a breath. “Z said you’re scared of hurting our friendship. I don’t want you to be scared of that, though. There’s literally nothing you can ever do to get rid of me, I’m your best friend until one of us finally dies.”

Patrice chuckles. “Thanks, Marchy.”

“No problem.”

“I also feel bad for breaking up with you when you don’t even remember it. You were trying to apologize and I pretty much just told you to fuck off.”

“Well, like you said, I don’t remember it. I was fucking shit-faced. I woke up on my couch and someone left a bunch of post-its on my arm telling me to go grocery shopping and do laundry and that kind of shit, and there was one that also said ‘by the way Bergy dumped you.’”

Patrice cringes and looks like he took a brick to the face. “Oh my god, you’re not serious.”

“Sorry, I actually am for once… so after that I just sat around and felt sorry for myself whenever I wasn’t with the team. Then my mom called and I spent like, two hours on the phone with her crying and shit. But… I also knew I deserved it. I deserved to have you leave me, so I couldn’t be mad at you for it. That’s why I kept being friends with you, even though you didn’t want me to.”

Brad finishes his cupcake to give Patrice a moment to process.

“You didn’t deserve that,” his friend whispers. “You were scared out of your mind and I should’ve known better. I should’ve tried to talk to you about it, but I was in a lot of pain and we lost and… and that’s no excuse. I should’ve been better, and I don’t deserve your friendship.”

“I don’t give a shit if you think you ‘deserve’ it or not,” Brad huffs, “I’m your friend because I want to be. That’s not going to change.”

“I know,” Patrice nods. “I’m sorry I let you go this long thinking you’re the one who screwed up even though the truth is we both did. I’m also sorry for breaking up with you when you were drunk and trying to apologize. And… I’m sorry I scared you so bad in the first place back then. I wish I was smart enough to talk to you instead of leaving you, and I don’t deserve your friendship or your love. You shouldn’t have been the one asking for a second chance earlier, because if either of us is the one who has to ask, it’s me.” Patrice slowly reaches over to take Brad’s hand. “Please give me a second chance, Marchy. I’ll try to be what you deserve this time.”

Brad just pulls him over and kisses him. Fuck, he’s missed getting to kiss Patrice. He almost forgot how nice it feels. There isn’t a cell in his body that resents Patrice for breaking up with him before, and he hates that Patrice doesn’t feel good enough for him. So Brad resolves that he’ll just have to keep kissing Patrice until all those terrible thoughts are gone for good.

Even once they stop, Brad nuzzles against the side of his face. He wants to be absolutely clear on how he feels about this idea, and it seems to be having the desired effect because Patrice is holding both his hands now. Slow smiles cross both their faces.

“I’ll try to be better to you this time,” Patrice promises, his voice a murmur like the moment will shatter if he speaks any louder.

“Stop, you’re already perfect,” Brad insists, like he hasn’t said that hundreds of times before. “I’m the one who’s not good enough, remember?”

“Don’t ever say that again.” It’s still spoken gently. “You’re more than good enough. Nobody else would’ve forgiven me. I couldn’t even forgive me.”

“You don’t need to get forgiven,” Brad decides, finally pulling away enough for them to make eye contact. “You just need love and attention like everyone else. The real kind, not from the media.”

Patrice nods. “Yeah.”

They talk for a little bit, hashing out a couple more issues and debating whether they should call Z and Tuukka to admit they’re both right. Brad thinks of the cupcake, and wonders if that was the secret all along. To not only work for something, but to also not even make wishes in the first place. He didn’t need to wish for this - he needed an objective opinion from Z, Patrice needed some common sense from Tuuks, and they both needed to admit their shortcomings and their mistakes from the last time they tried to do this. With those things, and without making pointless wishes, Brad thinks they have a better shot this time.


End file.
